


Bespoke

by Deepdarkwaters



Series: Bespoke [4]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fingerfucking, Harry Hart is a Little Shit, Lingerie, M/M, spy husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6835120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's been a never-ending string of unforgettable moments living with this idiot, and something about the challenging arch of Harry's eyebrow makes Merlin remember one in particular: the night Harry lay delirious and sleepy across the bed with come splashed up his face, watching as Merlin gently rubbed Savlon into the raw patch on Harry's wrist where he'd tugged too hard on the ties holding him to the bedstead. <i>Regrets?</i> he'd asked softly, and Harry repeated it scornfully. <i>Regrets, in my own home, with you? Never.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bespoke

**Author's Note:**

> 100000% of the blame for this goes to the trash team of enablers I find myself surrounded with. THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE. (♥)
> 
> Alternate title/summary: Harry just really really really likes cock and nice fabric.

After almost thirty years of living together they've got this morning routine thing down to choreographed perfection.

Harry's the one who wakes first, creeping downstairs to the kitchen to put the kettle on and get some breakfast going because Merlin mentioned once in 1983 how nice it is to wake up to the smell of toast and Harry's never forgotten it. There's a drowsy half hour of fumbling with teacups and broadsheets, then Harry drags himself off to shower in the main bathroom because that's where he keeps all the potions he thinks makes him look thirty-five instead of forty-five. Merlin always manages an extra twenty minutes of snoozing star-shaped in the empty bed, a shower, _and_ a shave by the time Harry's finished faffing about with his hair and comes back to the bedroom to get dressed.

Today is different. Today, Harry comes to lean against the ensuite door frame with the sort of casual ease that's never really casual at all.

Merlin narrows his eyes at Harry's reflection, wondering what his game is, then goes back to shaving the rasp of stubble off his chin. "Can I help you?"

"No," Harry says, and stands there watching a while longer. It's extremely distracting, mainly because, like Merlin himself, he's only wearing the trouser half of his favourite suit. He's still flushed slightly in the bare chest from his shower, gleaming above the collarbones where he's missed a bit while drying off.

"Well, do you mind fucking off before I cut myself?"

Harry's mildly interested look morphs instantly to a pleased sort of grin. "Distracted by every handsome man you see, or is it just me?"

"You're usually the only one who watches me in the bathroom."

"Usually," Harry repeats. He laughs quietly, an amused little breath out, and wanders out of sight back into the bedroom so when he speaks next he's just a disembodied voice. "Listen, I probably ought to show you something or you'll find out anyway from James."

Well, that's not immediately suspicious or anything. Merlin makes a final few passes with his razor, wipes his face clean, and warily goes back into the bedroom to find Harry in front of the wardrobe, choosing a tie and trying to pretend he's not up to something.

"If he's talked you into another tattoo you're both getting six months of surveillance in Skegness."

"Oh, I wouldn't," Harry says mildly, "I seem to recall an awful lot of tattoo shops there." In the mirror on the wardrobe door Merlin can see his face, the careful blankness of his expression and the way he can never hide the gleam of laughter in his eyes, not from Merlin. "I lost at cards last week. He cheated, obviously, but how can I prove it? There's nothing else for it, I'm just going to have to take my forfeit like a man and carry on quietly plotting his destruction while he thinks he's got the upper hand."

Harry helps Merlin on with his shirt, fussing over the buttons and straightening his collar for him; another ritual, something of a silly one – as if he can't dress himself, honestly – but nevertheless one they find themselves committing to by habit after two and a half decades of it. Harry's hands are warm and familiar against his chest and shoulders, lingering, then all business again as he nimbly fastens Merlin's tie in a perfect knot.

"There," Harry says, satisfied. "Now you're handsome." He presses a quick kiss to Merlin's forehead, then another, longer, to his mouth, slowly sliding his tongue across Merlin's lip with a gentle touch that makes him shiver as though it's the first time all over again, the way it always does. He feels Harry's hands on his own, first entwining their fingers, then insistently drawing Merlin's arms around his body and down until his palms are brushing over Harry's waistband and hovering there just a moment away from his backside.

"Control yourself," Merlin tells him, trying to sound firm and failing utterly because he's just not very invested in the idea of removing his tongue from Harry's mouth. "We'll be late."

But Harry's insistent, shoving Merlin downwards until he gives in and goes for it: a long, slow, fucking delightful two-handed grope over pinstriped wool and the curve of muscle, drawing Harry closer against the front of him and kissing him breathless with such dedication that it takes Merlin a moment to realise he's feeling an odd bumpy roughness through the fabric. He pulls back from the kiss then, frowning, sliding his palms over Harry's arse trying to figure out firstly what's wrong with it, and secondly how Harry's managing to look simultaneously sheepish and extremely pleased with himself.

"Explain."

"Can't, really. I'll have to show you."

There's been a never-ending string of unforgettable moments living with this idiot, and something about the challenging arch of Harry's eyebrow makes Merlin remember one in particular: the night Harry lay delirious and sleepy across the bed with come splashed up his face, watching as Merlin gently rubbed Savlon into the raw patch on Harry's wrist where he'd tugged too hard on the ties holding him to the bedstead. _Regrets?_ he'd asked softly, and Harry repeated it scornfully. _Regrets, in my own home, with you? Never._

Harry unbuttons slowly, making a show of it, because of fucking course he does; he doesn't know how to do _anything_ without making it a show. There's a gleaming flash of pale, shining fabric between the widening V of his fly, and Merlin takes an involuntary step back when he realises what it is, not quite sure even in his own mind whether he's recoiling or trying to get a better view.

"Jesus," is all he can manage to say, while Harry grins, delighted with himself as fucking always. "You do know you're allowed to say no when James dares you to do something?"

"Absolutely fucking not. And let him win? Over my dead body or his. I'm quite sure he expected me to chicken out, but actually the joke's on him because my balls have never felt so cherished."

"Is that not itchy?"

Harry sounds scandalised. "How dare you? This is organic silk and vintage Nottingham lace." He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and wriggles them down an inch or two so Merlin can see: pristine ivory silk and intricate floral trim clinging closely to Harry's narrow hips. They fit him far too well across the front to be women's knickers: only Harry Hart, of all the fucking idiots in the world, would have bespoke silk lingerie made for a _dare_.

"You're going to have to take these off immediately," Merlin tells him, feeling slightly numb in the mouth around the words, then clarifies, "The trousers," when Harry gets a stubborn look on his face.

"I thought you were worried about being late?" He drops his trousers and Merlin watches, barely breathing, as his skin is revealed all at once, golden tan looking darker against the ivory sheen of the silk when Merlin's so used to stripping him out of plain black boxer briefs.

"Sacrifice the second cup of tea, meeting's not until ten, we're fine."

Harry laughs, low and teasing, when Merlin's fingers come to rest on his bare legs just below the lace trim. "If I knew this was all it took to make you stop nagging me about being late I might have tried it twenty years ago."

"Stop talking," Merlin tells him, and Harry shuts up at once. Instead he just smiles softly, bordering on smug, and looks down between them at Merlin's hands: one holding him at the hip, silk and lace decadent and thrilling under the press of his palm, and the fingertips of the other gliding across the front of him. Harry's cock behind the silk is hardening already, starting to fill the fitted stretch of fabric, and he _sighs_ at Merlin's touch, shaky and imploring without needing words until Merlin takes a step back and draws Harry with him, one fingertip curled into the lace waistband.

"Please don't tear them," Harry says, voice turning rougher as Merlin slides a thumb gently up the hardening line of his cock through the silk, "and I can't imagine a gallon of come will be very good for them either, so aim both pistols wisely. Otherwise, I'm yours."

"A gallon," Merlin repeats, raising his eyebrows until Harry gives him that sheepish, lovely grin again.

"Maybe not quite, but who knows." His fingers find Merlin's, urging him to start stroking again. "I like them _very_ much." Then his other hand creeps up the collar of Merlin's shirt, coming to rest on the clean shave of his jaw. "Don't tell James, obviously. It's supposed to be embarrassing."

"I can't imagine you embarrassed of anything." Merlin sits when the back of his knees hit the bed, and urges Harry closer. For a minute he just _looks_ – partly to wind Harry up, because he's never been the patient sort, and partly just to ground himself. Up close he can see every hole and loop of the lace, the glimmering grain of the silk, the way it's starting to stretch across the insistent bulge of Harry's cock.

"In my own home," Harry says softly, "with you?" and Merlin feels a strange shiver of glee that he's remembering as well. "Do you like them?"

He trails his fingertips gently through the downward line of hair on Harry's stomach, watching a thrill of goosebumps shudder into being everywhere he touches. "I like anything you like."

"Taxidermy and Garry Marshall."

"The two revolting exceptions."

Merlin kisses where his fingers are, the fuzzy little stretch of skin just below Harry's navel – and then lower, mouth sliding over the silk, feeling the heat and twitch of flesh just a whisper of fabric away. Above him, Harry makes a beautiful, needy sort of noise, choking into silence when Merlin opens his mouth and sucks a wet patch into the silk covering Harry's cock.

"Come here," Merlin says eventually, releasing him and moving back to sit against the pillows. "Let me see you."

Harry follows Merlin's hands, first beckoning and then physically positioning him. He's at the level of uncharacteristically docile he only ever reaches when he's in the mood for giving himself over completely, stretched out bonelessly across Merlin's lap with a dopey grin on his face while Merlin gently strokes his silk-clad behind and watches him _fidget_. "Haven't been over here for a while," Harry says, glancing back over his shoulder with an amused, lazy look in his eyes.

"Well, you haven't tested my patience for a while," Merlin reminds him, and Harry laughs softly, pressing his face into the covers and muffling a giddy little moan there when Merlin's fingers dip right inside his waistband to cup his arse in one big hand and guide him into motion. He's more than willing, rocking eagerly against Merlin's thigh and finding a languid sort of rhythm that makes Merlin wish he'd saved all this for later when they could have spent all night on it. There's something vaguely ridiculous about it all – Merlin in his full work gear except his jumper, Harry writhing across his lap wearing only wet silk and lace knickers with the socks and Kingsman logo suspenders he hadn't bothered taking off when he lost his trousers – but they've always been like that right from the start: him and Harry, constantly finding each other hilarious even when nobody else does, being charmed by the stupid things, stumbling into love the same clumsy way you trip over a crooked paving stone.

"You look absurd," Merlin tells him, because he does, but he can't hide the sickening fondness in his voice and wouldn't want to anyway. Harry just laughs, bucking back insistently against Merlin's squeezing, stroking hand on his backside, thrusting harder against his thigh. There's a sound in his breathing now, very nearly a pleading whine; when Merlin offers his hand Harry takes it gratefully, drawing two fingers deep into his mouth way past any decent person's ability not to gag and sucking hard, wet and inept. "Look at you," Merlin says, dropping his voice into the quiet, rough tone that always fires Harry up when he gets this way. "You'll come just like this over my lap, won't you, if I want you to?" He removes his hand from Harry's underwear just long enough to find the lube bottle behind the lamp on the bedside table, still carelessly uncapped from the taunting wank Harry had decided to indulge in the night before to show Merlin through his glasses what he was missing by working late for the third night this week, then soaks his hand and slips it back beneath the silk, between Harry's cheeks to slide inside him with a finger, slow and wet and hard just the way he likes it. Harry rams back against him, a moan rumbling around the fingers he's holding deep in his mouth, then surges forward again to resume getting himself off against Merlin's trouser leg through his outrageous silk underwear.

"Another," Harry demands, slurred around fingers in his mouth.

"North or south end?" Merlin asks, and feels Harry's laughter everywhere at once: around the fingers pressing on his tongue, vibrating in his stomach over Merlin's lap, in the flutter and clench of his arse.

"Both."

Merlin twists another finger into him, strangely thrilled by the stretch of the silk over his hand and the motion of his knuckles moving beneath the fabric, and feeds one more into Harry's mouth, and then a fourth too, because why not? Harry's too far gone now to suck but he swallows, ragged and stuttering, mouth stretched wide around most of Merlin's hand and unearthing a scatter of pretty fucking spectacular memories: the way Harry always sucks cock with a feverish sort of desperation like the world's about to end; that time he was away on a job in New York for interminable months and ended up with two Statesmen taking turns with his mouth while Merlin murmured encouragement and instructions to them all over a private line; the way he kisses sometimes and makes it a full act in itself, hours whiled away on the sofa on a languorous Sunday afternoon or in bed in the grey light before the alarm starts blaring, all roaming hands and shared breath.

"You look incredible," Merlin says suddenly, and it's no more or less true than when he called Harry absurd. They're just two of a million facets of this idiot he accidentally loves, like his arrogance and his awful DVD collection and his stupid inability to say no to a dare and the way he _always_ ends up with his head on Merlin's pillow in the middle of the night instead of his own, tickling him awake with the fluffy curl of his hair that nobody else is allowed to see. Harry makes a pleased little noise around Merlin's fingers at the praise and finds a spot on Merlin's thigh that seems to work better for him, rubbing his clothed cock harder there in desperate little circles that shake all the breath out of him while Merlin fucks him with his fingers and tells him a hundred times how pretty he looks until he comes with a shuddering cry they can probably hear from space. When Harry's got control of his limbs again he's on Merlin immediately, tearing into his fly buttons like a badly-wrapped birthday present and sucking him with such hunger that it only feels like seconds before Merlin, trembling and gasping nonsense endearments, comes so deep in Harry's throat that he probably can't even taste it.

"Sorry to bugger up your dare," Merlin says a little while later, when Harry's kicked the soaking stained underwear off onto the carpet and he's rummaging through his drawer for a clean pair so they can finally race to the shop to make the ten o'clock meeting. "Probably could have been a bit more careful."

"Never mind." Harry turns round, not with the black cotton boxers Merlin expected, but with another wisp of silk and lace in a luminous peridot green, and that familiar, maddening look of extreme self-satisfaction on his face. "Now I know you're not going to run for the hills – plenty more where they came from."

**Author's Note:**

> Come and say hello [on tumblr](http://deepdarkwaters.tumblr.com)! And leave more fic prompts if you like - if I'm going to keep spamming this fandom (and I AM) then it might as well be with stuff that someone specifically wants to read :P


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